Chelsea Grin
by buggerfck
Summary: That’s my favorite kind of laughter – the painful, uncontrollable kind. The kind that goes on and on and on until you can’t breathe anymore and it feels like you’re just gonna DIE if one more howl lets loose from your lungs. SEVEN: Poison & preparation.
1. Where Is My Mind?

**Title:** Chelsea Grin (1/?)**  
Rating:** PG-13**  
Fandom:** The Dark Knight**  
Genre:** General, eventual crime drama-ish**  
Characters:** Now - the Joker, with a special appearance by Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Later - Bruce/Batman, Harvey Dent, Jim Gordon, Scarecrow, etc.**  
Summary:** "That's my favorite kind of laughter – the painful, uncontrollable kind. The kind that goes on and on and on until you can't breathe anymore and it feels like you're just gonna die if one more howl lets loose from your lungs."**  
Word count:** 1,582**  
Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to DC. I'm just messing around.**  
Author's Note:** Sort of a follow-up to Hang 'Em High, but you don't have to read that to understand this. Also, I don't really know where I'm going with this. I'm just going wherever the Joker takes me. :)

* * *

I don't think much about Harvey Dent. What's the point? Harvey's over and done with, thanks to the Batman. Apparently. Ooh, boy – when my lovely stupid doctor told me _that_ little piece of news, I laughed myself nearly to pieces! And ohh. Did that feel good. That's my favorite kind of laughter – the painful, uncontrollable kind. The kind that goes on and on and on until you can't breathe anymore and it feels like you're just gonna _die_ if one more howl lets loose from your lungs. People don't laugh like that often enough, I think. If they did, I wouldn't have to _make_ them.

But then that goody-goody doctor had to go and give me a sedative. Fucking sedatives. They ruin everything, and _she_ ruined my fun. I laughed, I cackled, I giggled until the very last moment, when I told her with a slurrrrr, "That, doc, is the funniest joke I've ever heard."

And it was. It truly was. _My_ Batman, kill Harvey? Now, that is what I call bullshit, my friend. I, uh, know for a _fact_ that Batman would've thrown himself out a window before he ever let Harvey the, uh, "Hero?" die, and he would've turned himself in before he ever _killed_ the guy.

Makes me wonder how many people Dent killed before Batman, haha, "killed" him. Must've been a lot, if darling Bats was taking the rap for the good DA. Which, weirdly enough, makes me proud of Harvey. Yeah, proud, I'm prooooud of Harvey Dent! See, he did to Batman what I did to him – he took the flyin' rat's plan and turned it inside out.

He made Batman a killer.

Look, I tried _so. Fucking. Hard._ To make Batman break his one _ridiculous_ little rule, but hey. I don't mind if Harvey beat me to it, I don't, really! He got it done, didn't he? Good ol' reliable Harrrrvey, Harvey Dent. Who knew he'd turn out to be my own little protégé?

Even when I'm sedated, the thought sends me into a fit of giggles.

You know, Harvey Dent's memorial service was broadcasted on every news channel in Gotham. And, deee-lightfully enough, the good doctor in charge made all the prisoners watch it, even the maximum-security prisoners like me. Good thing, too. Because _that_ was some damn good television. It was just so _funny_. Perfectly farcical – _inane_, even. Gordon's eulogy was particularly entertaining, especially the "not the hero we deserved, but the hero we needed" bit. I _hoo-hoo-hoot_-ted with laughter at that little remark. Jim Gordon, police commissioner and comedian extraordinaire! Ha. Ha. Ha.

Seeing that service, though – it made me think of my one meeting with Dent. Sometimes I remember it different than others, and the more I think about it, the more I think what _actually _happened, didn't happen. Sometimes Harvey's coin lands on the scarred face, and he blows me straight to hell; other times, it lands on the pristine face, and he shoots me anyway. Or maybe it lands on the scarred face, but surprise, Harvey! I tricked ya – the gun's not loaded at all. I just wanted to see if you could _do_ it. And he keeps pulling the trigger, like I'm _joking._ It's just too bad, isn't it, Harvey, that I used those bullets already?

The events sometimes change, but the words never do. Those words are important. Those words changed Harvey Dent into Harvey Two-Face. Sometimes I think that those are the best words I've ever spoken, those words that manipulated Dent and made him his own worst enemy. I spoke the truth, but I lied with every word, and I played him a vi-oh-linnnn. Just call me maestro, ah ha ha.

One thing in particular comes to mind. "Do I really look like a guy with a plan?" I said to Harvey, oozing sarcasm. If Harvey had been, well, haha, _sane_, he would have known that, yes, I did have a plan. I always have a plan. My plans just never _seem_ like plans, because I'm not trying to scheme anybody – I'm just trying to get by. And it helps, y'know, that my kind of chaotic logic makes sense only to me. My plans keep people guessing, 'cause to them, they aren't plans at all. They're, uh, random acts of violence, or the trappings of a, ah, madman. But I'm not a madman. They just don't _get_ that.

Which brings me to Arkham. You know, I could escape here twenty different ways, and no one would know until I was looooong gone. All it takes is a pen. Maybe a needle. Yeah, I could manage with a needle. It helps that I've got a ton of them stored up in my mattress. Sure, that makes my bed a little prickly, but honestly, who _sleeps_ here?

I could do it, if I really wanted to. But I just don't _feel_ like it yet. I'm having too much fun to want to leave. If nothing else, I'm sticking around for my, ah, one-on-ones with my lovely, lovely brain-dead doctor. It's thanks to her that I got all those needles. Methinks she has the, uh. Dropsies. Ha.

Our first session, I didn't really do much. I just let her talk. Listening? Nononono, I didn't do much of that either. She said something about exorcizing my _demons _by – what was it? Talking through them – with _her_? Ha. Yes. I remember that. Huhhh. Demons. I never realized we still lived in the, uh, eighteenth century, did you? Well, anyway, whatever the century, I certainly did not want to do _that_ – not because I don't think I _have_ any demons, but because I _know_ they're perfectly obvious, and this doctor is a _complete_ idiot if she doesn't see that. Besides, why would I want to talk about my – hee hee – _demons_, anyway? Demons are so much more rewarding when you _act_ on them, not when you _talk_ about them, but this pretty little doctor doesn't seem to understand that.

Yet.

So, for our second session, I'm gonna have some fun and _make_ her understand.

* * *

She comes in with a smile, but mine is bigger - it's always bigger, always will be. She says, hello, how ya doing, and I say I'm bored out of my _fucking _mind, and she just laughs – it sounds like a retarded bell, slooooow but bright and high-pitched. In other words, annoying.

I lick my lips, grinning with my face but not with my mouth. That time, I wasn't making a joke.

Our first topic of the day? Knives. I love knives – lovelovelovelovelovelove – but I don't say anything about 'em. Instead, I ask about my neighbors, the infamous Dr. Crane and the unfortunately, permanently incapacitated Carmine Falcone. I tell her it doesn't make any sense, that I'm right _between_ them. She says, well, that's not for me to decide, and I change the subject – to, hahaha, the pros and cons of calendars. That throws her a little. I like that.

I change subjects more times than I _care_ to count, and she gets a little more miffed each time. But she – yeah, she's a professional, and nothing shows on her face, so she _thinks_ I don't know. But I do. I notice ev-er-ree-thiiiing, including her tip-tapping little toes. I'm so busy babbling on about everything and nothing, and she's so busy being a _professional_, that she doesn't notice that _I'm_ studying _her. _Not the other way around.

I let her get slightly less uncomfortable before I pull out the big guns and ask her about those itty-bitty, barely visible scars on the inside of her left wrist. I tell her she did a good job hiding them, better than most people, but me? I got an eye for scars. If they're there, I'll find them, no matter how faint or well hidden they happen to be.

That scares her, I can tell. She pales – no, no. Her _lips_ pale, the rest of her face stays the same peachy pink color – and she tries, oh soooo desperately, to change the subject. She's, ahh, she's not very good at it. Her attempts are pathetic, clummmsy. I could do better with my mouth sewn shut.

It doesn't take me very long to break her. It's almost _too_ easy – the more I talk, the more she stammers and recoils at my raaazor-sharp words, just as sharp as those kitchen knives she used to slice herself with – and it suddenly occurs to me that, hahaha, we're talking about _knives_ now, just like she wanted! – until finally, she can't take it anymore. That's when she tells me about Dent's apparent demise, blurting it out like it's her daddy's dirtiest secret, the one she promised never to tell.

She writes in her notes that just the mere mention of Dent sent me into hysterics, and that no one should _ever_ mention him to me again.

Like I said, this bitch is stupid.

* * *

Oh, what a dazzling session _that_ had been.

It was quite awhile before I saw her again, but when I did, I just grinned and purrrred, "You know what I could really go for right now? A couple-a nice, juicy cherries."

She blushed, and I cackled, "The _fruit_, doc. I'm not one of your – ahhh ha ha ha! –_crrrrazies_ with the sex drive of a, uh, thirteen-year-old man-boy!" And I cackled some more.


	2. Lies, Beautiful & Otherwise

**Title:** Chelsea Grin – "Lies, Beautiful and Otherwise" (2/?)**  
Rating:** PG-13**  
Fandom:** The Dark Knight**  
Genre:** General, eventual crime drama-ish**  
Characters:** This chapter, Dr. Quinselle and the Joker. Mentions of Dr. Crane and a few OCs (but no Mary-Sues!). Next chapter, Bruce Wayne, Dr. Quinselle, and the Joker.**  
Summary:** "All it took was two looks – one look _at_ the Joker and one look _from_ him – and she was no longer a professional. She was his." An introduction to Harley Quinn.**  
Word count: **2,067.**  
Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to DC. I'm just messing around.

**Author's Note:** A GINORMOUS thank-you goes out to everyone who left a comment/review. You guys ROCK, and this chapter is for yooou! Also, I was totally inspired to write this by a combination of seeing TDK again, watching _American Psycho,_ and listening to 30 Seconds to Mars. And, uh, M.I.A., haha. Credit where credit is due and all that. ;)

Oh, one more thing: please don't kill me for changing the spelling of Harley's name. I just… hate the way it's spelled, lol. "Harlean" looks better to me than "Harleen," and besides, "Harlean" was Jean Harlow's birth name. What could be cooler, right? And, uh, "Quinzel" just fills me with meh. So, this is my version of a Nolanverse Harley – I hope you like her as much as I do. :)

* * *

Dr. Harlean Hilaria Quinselle got over actively hating her name a long time ago. At twenty-seven years of age, she still despised her name, but the feeling was more of a secret disdain than an absolute loathing for it. When she was younger, she detested her parents for giving her such an outlandish name, while the rest of her family all had completely _normal_ names (her parents, Anna and James; her older twin brothers, Eric and Jack; her younger sister, Sonia). For the most part, her family was pretty ordinary; nonetheless, she envied the added normalcy they gained from their common, unassuming names. Whenever Harlean met someone new, she always had to repeat her name at least once. No one else in her family had that problem.

The kids at school never let her forget her name. Throughout her childhood, she endured endless catcalls of "hilarious harlequin" and all of its possible variants. Even today, almost fifteen years later, she never used the word "hilarious." Ever.

Painfully enough, the worst of the taunts came from her siblings. She embarrassed them because she couldn't blend in, not like they could. And even though they knew it wasn't her fault, they made fun of her anyway. It was expected of them, and she never forgave them for it.

As if it weren't enough for her to be the middle child with the weird name, stuck between twin boys and a miracle baby sister, she was also the only one who stood out. Part of that was her name, of course, but she was also the only blue-eyed blonde among a family of brown-eyed brunettes. She was pretty, and she was smart, two facts that each less-than-average Quinselle deeply resented. Neither of her brothers went to college, so Harlean's parents added their sizeable college funds to Harlean's practically nonexistent one. Anything to get her out of the house, after all.

When she left high school, she left home – for good. She chose to go to med school at Gotham University, half a continent away from where she grew up, and she never went back, never told people where she was from. She lost her Mid-western accent so quickly that before long, she sounded like she had lived in Gotham her entire life. She was proud of herself for that accomplishment, for blending in so well.

And though she had sworn for years that she'd change her name as soon as she turned eighteen, she never did. Instead, she used it to her advantage. As a high school student, her name made her an outcast, but as a med student, it made her memorable. In all her classes, she worked hard to make a name for herself – harder than anyone, because by the end of her freshman year, Harlean had discovered the glorious power of sex. A few loose buttons and a short, short skirt worked like magic on every sad, old professor at the university – and not just the men. Harlean easily seduced a number of female professors before she was through with college. That kind of thing didn't bother her, so long as it got her the A's she needed.

Harlean graduated at the top of her class, even though her talents as a psychiatrist were mediocre at best. She didn't care much for psychiatry, but she stuck with it because she had no desire to do anything else. In spite of her apathy, Dr. Jonathan Crane, the director of Arkham Asylum, hired her a week after she graduated. Officially, it was the outstanding recommendations from nearly all of her professors, rather than her sexual prowess, that garnered his attention, but every staff member at Arkham knew the truth. She continued sleeping with Crane for over two years, until he promoted her from a lowly nurse to the head psychiatrist of Arkham's maximum-security wing, a feat practically unheard of in the medical community.

It wasn't that Harlean was shameless. She just knew what she wanted – and she _wanted_ to be the head doctor of Arkham Asylum before she turned thirty. And the only thing standing in the way of her ambition was Jonathan Crane. She had plans to sue him for sexual harassment – after two years, she had more than enough evidence to win a lawsuit, have him fired, and take his place – but luckily enough, he ruined his own reputation without her help. It shocked her, of course, but it nevertheless delighted her to think that Jonathan Crane had gone from her boss to her patient to a fugitive on the run. Naturally, she assumed that she would be his replacement. After Crane completely destroyed Arkham, who else would take the job and rebuild it but she?

Gotham's new DA, however, had other plans. Part of Harvey Dent's crusade against corruption was to "rehabilitate" Arkham and start it anew. With the help of some of Gotham's wealthiest citizens, the hospital was relocated from the Narrows to a better part of the city, and Harvey Dent personally fired every employee that Crane had hired. The only exception was Harlean, because she was lucky enough to count Dent's girlfriend, Rachel Dawes, among her friends. Rachel vouched for her, and against all odds, Harlean remained the head psychiatrist of max-sec. It irked her that she wasn't promoted, but she was happy enough to keep her job.

To replace Crane and his employees, Dent hired a friend of his from college, a Dr. Tristan Pascal, whom he trusted implicitly. Harlean never slept with him – or Dent, for that matter – because she never needed to. After Pascal took over Arkham, Harlean started to take a mild interest in her job, and she owed it all to the Batman. He practically gift-wrapped two of Gotham's most notorious criminals for Arkham, and he gave her the two most fascinating patients she had ever encountered in her career.

The first was her old boss, Jonathan Crane, or "Scarecrow." Now that he was officially insane, she had more fun with him than she ever did when she was "dating" him. And it might have been wrong, but she loved toying with his now-fragile mind. She over-medicated him, she gave him the wrong medicines, she mixed his medications, she did everything she possibly could to break him. She loved watching him scream.

And the second was none other than the Joker. Commissioner Gordon personally oversaw his delivery to Arkham and warned her about him. He told her that it wouldn't take him very long to get into her head – he would try to destroy her from within, because that was his idea of fun. She told Gordon she could handle it – she was a professional, after all. But all it took was two looks – one look _at_ the Joker and one look _from_ him – and she was no longer a professional.

She was his.

* * *

She stopped hating her name when realized she could _use_ it to get whatever she wanted. Her name made her exotic, desirable, sexy. Her name didn't make her an excellent psychiatrist – it made people _think_ she was an excellent psychiatrist, because that's what she wanted people to think. She was an actress of the highest order, a cold, apathetic professional and a malleable manipulator. Or she used to be, until she met the Joker.

Even so, that didn't make her like her name any better. It was still a fucking absurd name.

* * *

When she walks into the room, the Joker is already there. He's slouching, cuffed to everything – the table, the chair, himself – and he looks bored. He always looks bored. Then he sees her, and his eyes – well, they get darker. She's learned from her past three sessions with him that that's when she should worry. It means he's interested.

He gives her a long look and drawls, "Evening, doc."

Her mouth twitches into a smile as she sits down across from him. "It's morning, actually, Mr. J."

His eyes narrow briefly, and he licks his lips. "Mister. _Jay_," he says, testing it out. "Huhh."

She swallows. She really wishes Dr. Pascal would let him wear his makeup; he looks naked without it – he looks like a person, not a monster. "Is there something else you'd like me to call you?"

He laughs, and she can't decide if it's a giggle or a shriek. There are no words to describe his laughter, no words to describe how frightening and fascinating it is. "No, nononono," he says, still laughing. "Mr. J is, uh. It's fine. Ha _ha._"

She opens her mouth to respond, but he raises his hands with a violent jerk to stop her, and she jumps. He looks vaguely annoyed that he can't raise his wrists past his waist; he gives his head a little shake and says, leaning forward, "I wanna know something. Why does calling me 'Joker' make all you quacks so… so uncomfortable? Doesn't make any kind of sense to me. I mean, calling me Joker isn't any different from calling that guy outside the door Carpenter or, uh, Parker, you know?" She opens her mouth again, but he waves both his hands dismissively – cuffed the way he is, he can't move one without moving the other. "But, uh, look - I got a, uh, a question for you, doc."

"Yes?" she says eagerly, and she leans back in her chair to avoid looking too keen.

The corners of his mouth – where the scars begin – go back a little at her enthusiasm, and he looks her straight in the eye, almost mischievously. "Well, see, I don't mind if _you_ call me 'Mr. J.' Even though that's not –" he shakes his head again, crinkles his nose "- 'snot my name."

"You've never _told_ me your – "

He tilts his head sideways and gives her a _look_, and she shuts up. "So," he continues brightly, "I'll make a deal with you. You call me Mr. J, and I call you Katrina. How's that?"

She blinks. "Why would you want to call me Katrina?

He smiles. "Maybe you should ask my neighbor, Dr. Ichabod." He moves his hands back down to his lap and gives his mouth a little smack.

She smiles, coldly. "Clever, Mr. J. Very clever. And I would, but Mr. Crane is more of a Headless Horseman than an Ichabod, and he isn't much inclined to speak with me."

"Sure, sure," he says, and he nods mockingly. But then he stops suddenly, inspects her, and shifts in his seat. "You know, _you've_ never told me your name, either. And if you did, I wouldn't have to call you Katrina." He gives her a disapproving raise of the eyebrows, like she's cheated him out of the lottery.

And, in a way, she has. Her full name is the key to her sanity, and they both know it. She resists the impish urge to say, "Tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine." She knows that'll get her nowhere.

He looks at her expectantly while she debates with herself. After maybe fifteen seconds, she closes her eyes briefly and sighs. "It's, uh – it's Harlean. Harlean Quinselle." Her mouth is suddenly, unbelievably dry.

He narrows his eyes. "Middle name?"

She looks away from him. She doesn't want to see his face when she whispers, "Hilaria. Not _Hilary_. Hilaria."

"Ahhh. Harlean Hi-_lair-_ia Quinselle. Harlean. Quin… selle. Harlequin. Harley. Quinn."

"Believe me, you're not the first to say it," she says coldly with an equally cold glare.

"A little touchy, aren't we, Harley?" He grins. "Har_leeeeeean_ Quinnnnnselle. How wonderfully sadistic of your parents. Not to mention _po-et-tic._"

She doesn't say anything. She can't – she feels twelve years old again.

He leans his head down to his hands and runs them through his hair, permanently green and greasy, then he looks at her out of the corners of his eyes. "Y'know, all parents are poets." He nods, quickly and matter-of-factly. "Some are better than others, of course, but mostly, ahh – mostly, they're all crap."

She can't help it - she laughs. "Very true, Mr. J."

He leans forward again, and, grinning widely, much too widely, he says, "You wanna know how I got these scars?"

"Of course." She's not lying.

"Well," he licks his lips slowly. "Remind me to show you someday."

She swears – she _swears_ – that he winks at her.


	3. Life Inside the Music Box

**Title:** Chelsea Grin – "Life Inside the Music Box" (3/4)**  
Rating:** PG-13**  
Fandom:** The Dark Knight**  
Genre:** General, eventual crime drama-ish**  
Characters:** This chapter, Bruce Wayne, Commissioner Gordon, Dr. Quinselle, and the Joker.  
**Summary:** "And that was the point, wasn't it? The Joker would always keep him guessing. That was the point of everything." From Bruce's POV.  
**Word count: **4,659  
**Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to DC. I'm just messing around.  
**Author's Note:** Just so you all know, the kid? Totally based on my cousin. Also, don't like, don't read. That's all.

* * *

Alfred thought it was an incredibly stupid idea.

Alfred, in all his wisdom, thought that donating so much money to Arkham would look extremely suspicious. Half a million dollars, just for the maximum-security wing? Just for _one cell_ in the maximum-security wing? It was beyond stupid, and Alfred told him so more times than Bruce cared to count.

He told Bruce that he would be caught if he went through with it – he would be caught, and no one else could save Gotham. After Rachel's funeral, Bruce stopped caring. He donated the money, and the press made a big fuss about it, of course. But, for whatever reason, no one ever connected his name with Batman's. Bruce was still safe. It was almost disappointing.

Dr. Pascal gave Bruce a call when the modifications were finished. Understandably, he had used the money for more than just the one cell that Bruce had specified, but Bruce didn't mind, just as long as the one cell was the most secure cell in the country. Pascal reassured him that it was, but Bruce wanted to see for himself.

Alfred thought that was an incredibly stupid idea as well. "You don't need this, Master Wayne," he said the night before Bruce's tour of Arkham. "Not now. You don't need to waste your time on a criminal already safe behind bars."

"Yes. I do."

The last thing Bruce heard before he fell asleep that night was _his _voice, growling with laughter.

"_Ohhh, you… you just couldn't let me go. Could you."_

* * *

The drive to Arkham Asylum took less time than he planned. Much to Alfred's dismay, he left the penthouse over an hour before Pascal expected him there, and arrived at Arkham thirty-five minutes early. And there was his first problem of the day.

Bruce Wayne was never early. Bruce Wayne was always _late._

He sighed, parked the car across the street from the hospital, and turned off the radio. Alfred was right – this was stupid. If he walked into Arkham right now, someone clever, someone _smart_, would figure out why. Though the thought was repugnant, he could only use Rachel's death as a cover for his inexplicable humanitarianism for so long.

Bruce closed his eyes, felt his heart stop for a millionth of a second. _Rachel_.

He remembered the first time they met. He was six and shy; she was five – five and two-thirds, actually, she was very adamant about that – and fearless. She found him in the library reading a Dr. Seuss book while his father took her mother around Wayne Manor, and before he even knew she was in the room – or, for that matter, who she was – she snatched the book from him and told him that he was too old for "baby books."

"But it's _The Sneetches,"_ he'd protested. "It's my dad's favorite book. He says it's important."

And Rachel shot him a look that unmistakably said _prove it._ Her tiny hands seemed to be attached to her hips, her elbows sticking out like thorns from a rose. She pursed her lips, and then she was suddenly sitting next to him, saying, "Well. Read it to me, and _I'll_ tell you if it's important."

So he did.

He opened his eyes and set his jaw. He could not think about Rachel now. Abruptly and without thinking, he climbed out of the Mercedes and crossed the street. He didn't bother to check and see if any cars were coming – they could hit him, for all he cared. He kept his eyes fixed on his destination, studying every inch of it.

The new Arkham Asylum was nothing like the old one, which worried Bruce. It looked exactly like every other office building in Gotham – tall, cold, and unforgiving. A little bit boring. And hell, it was ten pure stories of windows. Bruce didn't like that at all. Any desperate criminal with a brain – or without one, depending on the criminal – could jump out of a window.

Bruce understood why this new Arkham was so innocuous – it was camouflage. There was nothing foreboding or unsettling about it, and in that same vein, it wasn't even vaguely reminiscent of a hospital. It was just another building in Gotham, and superficially, it wasn't special in any way. Every Gothamite knew that Arkham housed some of the most dangerous minds in the city, but from the outside, no one would be able to tell. It was completely and deceptively normal.

Almost like Bruce himself.

Even though it was oddly reassuring, he ignored the thought. It was a distraction, and he couldn't let anything distract him now. He focused. He put on his mask, strutted through the front door of Arkham and swaggered up to the front desk. As he leaned nonchalantly up against the front desk, he flashed the receptionist his best Bruce Wayne smile. "Hi. Bruce Wayne for Dr. Pascal? I, uh, hope I'm not too early."

A sheepish grin this time. The homely receptionist liked that, and Bruce hated himself for a moment. "Dr. Pascal's waiting for you in his office, Mr. Wayne," she simpered. Bruce _really_ hated himself for making her simper. "Just down the hall and two doors to your right."

He gave her a little nod of thanks and sauntered down the hall with his hands in his pockets. He kept his face completely blank as he inspected the inside of Arkham, stupidly blank, like the billionaire playboy they all thought he was. Once again, the building's artificial normalcy struck him. Everything about it rang false, and nothing was at all hospital-like – at least not on this floor, which he assumed was just offices and storage. As he strolled down the hallway, he noticed that the floors were carpet rather than linoleum, and the rooms were lit by the sun rather than fluorescent light bulbs. It was those subtle differences that disconcerted Bruce the most, and made him regret his decision to come here. _Alfred was right,_ Bruce told himself again. _Beyond stupid._

Bruce found Dr. Pascal's office with relative ease, and once he spotted it, he immediately perceived that the door was ajar. Instinctively, he slowed his walk and did his best to eavesdrop inconspicuously. At first, he only heard indistinguishable murmurs, but as he got closer, the voices became more discernable. One belonged to Dr. Pascal – his voice was unmistakable, a tenor with an unfortunately nasal timbre – and a second belonged to a woman with a jarring laugh. The third voice was all too familiar, and hearing its fatigued but commanding tones made Bruce's stomach drop.

"You have to understand, Doctor," Commissioner Gordon was saying, "that it's completely against protocol. Your patient may be inhuman, but he's not some animal at a zoo, and you _cannot_ let just anybody come in and stare at him."

"I realize that, Commissioner," Dr. Pascal replied, not a little coldly. "But _you_ have to realize that Bruce Wayne is not _just anybody_ – he's a significant investor in Arkham Asylum, and after donating so much money to the maximum security level, it only makes _sense_ that he'd want to see exactly what his money got him."

Bruce stopped a few feet from the door, hands still in his pockets, and peered through the doorway, brow slightly furrowed. From here, he could see just a sliver of Gordon, part of the back of his head and neck, and just from that slight view, he could tell that Gordon was tense. Not good.

There was a long pause before Gordon answered. "He wants to _see_ what his money got him," Gordon repeated, disbelief evident in his voice.

"Yes."

"He wants to _see_ the new security upgrades that he paid for."

"Yes!"

Another pause. "That is absolutely out of the question."

"I'm sorry, Commissioner, but that's not for you to decide – "

Gordon stood up, and Bruce took an automatic step backwards – he didn't want the Commissioner to see him just yet. "It _is_ for me to decide, Pascal," Gordon said with stony decisiveness. "I don't want anybody but the doctors of this hospital knowing _anything_ about these security upgrades – even I don't want to know. The more people that know, the bigger the chances are that he'll escape, and that _cannot_ happen."

"But, Commissioner," interrupted the woman, speaking for the first time since Bruce had started eavesdropping, "you can't possibly think that Bruce Wayne, of all people – I mean, he _paid_ for the upgrades for this specific prisoner – he's not going to turn around and try to break him out!" She sounded too desperate, too cheery – and almost hopeful. Odd.

Gordon shook his head, but before he could reply, Bruce stepped forward and knocked once on the door. "This wouldn't be Dr. Pascal's office, would it?" he asked with a slightly befuddled look. Gordon turned and put his hands on his waist, frowning and disgruntled, and Bruce lightly pushed the door, widening the gap. "I'm afraid I got a little lost – tried to find the men's room and got all turned around, you see."

Dr. Pascal, a rail-thin man with a dark complexion and even darker bags under his eyes, jumped up from behind his desk at the sight of Bruce and sputtered, "Mr. Wayne! I didn't think – I didn't expect you to be so early!"

"Am I?" Bruce said disinterestedly, and he stepped into the room. At the same time, the woman – another doctor, he guessed – rose from her chair and clasped her arms to her chest. "Huh. Thought I was late." He shot a small grin to the blonde, and the corners of her lips twitched into a brief smile. Gordon's frown deepened.

Pascal cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. "Mr. Wayne," he said as he walked around his desk, "I'd like to introduce you to Dr. Quinselle, the chief psychiatrist of the maximum security ward."

"Quinselle?" Bruce asked as he held out his hand. She took it, smiled, and nodded, but he noticed that her eyes became distant the moment he said her name. "Is that French?"

"Probably," she said with a small, cold smirk.

"And, ah, this is Commissioner – "

"We've met, Pascal," Gordon interrupted hastily. "No need to introduce us." He offered his hand, and Bruce took it warily. He knew Gordon wasn't stupid. He just hoped he was oblivious to the painfully obvious. "How's that Lamborghini?"

Bruce laughed, partly out of relief. "Still in the shop, actually."

Gordon grimaced. "That much damage, huh?"

Bruce resisted the urge to say, "You should see my other one." No point in completely risking his cover just for a cheap laugh. Thankfully, Pascal cleared his throat again and said, "Let's get to business, shall we?"

They all took their seats, with Pascal behind his desk and Bruce in between Gordon and Dr. Quinselle. "Well, Mr. Wayne, before you arrived, the Commissioner and I were having a slight… disagreement," Pascal said delicately, and Bruce raised an eyebrow. Both doctors shifted in their seats, clearly uncomfortable. "Commissioner Gordon feels that it's – well. To put it simply, he doesn't want you to see any of the improvements that you paid for."

Bruce turned to Gordon, making sure that the look on his face was purely petulant, and Gordon said quickly, "Look, Mr. Wayne, it's a question of safety, that's all."

"Safety?" Bruce scoffed. "Come on, Gordon. You've got to be kidding."

Gordon shook his head again and leaned forward. "No, no, you don't understand. It's not a question of what's safest for _you_, Mr. Wayne, but what's safest for _Gotham._ In less than a week, that man nearly destroyed our city. He chose his targets well – he got rid of the best people in the city. Now, without someone like Harvey Dent standing up for the good in Gotham, can you imagine what he would to this city if he escaped? He'd burn it to the ground. I _cannot_ let that happen – and I won't. Not on my watch. For Gotham's sake, I don't want anyone but him and his doctors to see the inside of his cell. I can't take any risks with this guy."

After a moment, Bruce swallowed and slowly nodded. Quietly, he said, "I think I understand, Commissioner."

Gordon eyed Bruce carefully. "I don't mean to pry, but you're not exactly the charitable type, Mr. Wayne. Why the sudden interest in Arkham's security?"

Bruce's reply was short and required no further explanation. "Rachel Dawes was a friend of mine. I just wanted to make sure that the man who killed her gets what he deserves." Gordon nodded, and he rubbed his forehead sadly. Clearly, he still carried the weight of Harvey's accusations on his shoulders, even five months afterwards. Bruce sympathized, but of course, Gordon could never know that.

Then, Dr. Quinselle stood up, interrupting both Bruce's and Gordon's thoughts. "Well," she began in a professional but rather dismissive tone, "it seems we're at a bit of an impasse, aren't we? I mean," she amended quickly as all three men in the room opened their mouths to speak, "the Commissioner doesn't want Mr. Wayne to see the new facilities – which is completely understandable, and wise, of course – but if Mr. Wayne doesn't see the improvements, then he's wasting a trip here, isn't he?" She looked directly at Bruce, and there was something cunning and unfathomable in her expression. Frankly, it worried Bruce. He wasn't sure what to think of this doctor.

"Then what are you suggesting, Harlean?" Pascal asked monotonously. Bruce couldn't help but notice the thinly veiled disdain in Pascal's voice when he addressed Quinselle. It was somewhat strange – until now, Pascal had seemed like a rather tolerant individual, but it was quite clear that he did not approve of Dr. Quinselle, or her ideas.

"Simply a compromise, Tristan," Quinselle said, sweetly abrasive. She turned and spoke to Gordon, openly indicating whom she thought was in charge. "Commissioner, how would you feel if Mr. Wayne observed a therapy session between myself and Mr. J? You could observe as well, if you – "

"I'm sorry," Bruce interrupted. "Who the hell is Mr. J?" He knew, of course, but he felt the blood involuntarily drain from his face at her suggestion. It was all he could do to distract the rest of them from noticing his suddenly white face. Obviously annoyed, Dr. Quinselle explained the reasoning behind calling a man with no name but the one he gave himself 'Mr. J' – it was part of his therapy, apparently – and Bruce pretended to listen attentively.

Gordon, on the other hand, looked dubious. Dubious and almost horrified that Quinselle would even suggest such a thing. When she turned to him and asked him again what he thought, he took his glasses off and rubbed his brow again. "It's up to Mr. Wayne," he sighed. "If he wants to see him, I'll stick around. If not – well. That's that."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, shrugged, and said with casual resolve, "Well, I've never seen him in person before. I think I'd like to see Rachel's murderer, just once."

The truth was, Bruce saw him in the mirror every morning.

* * *

Dr. Quinselle wasted no time in organizing the impromptu therapy session. Twenty minutes after Bruce had made his decision, Dr. Pascal led Gordon and Bruce down to the basement (which, Bruce was happy to see, looked almost exactly like the old Arkham: grimy and grim), where the therapy sessions normally took place. Five minutes after that, Gordon and Bruce were standing on one side of a two-way mirror, and Dr. Quinselle and her patient were on the other side, sitting across from each other at metal table and conversing with each other almost normally. Almost.

Bruce completely missed the first few minutes of their discussion – something about waiving doctor-patient privilege, which only made the patient laugh – because he was too busy studying the man's face. Had it not been for that eerie voice, Bruce would have been hard-pressed to say that this man and the Joker were the same entity. Without the makeup, he looked nothing like the Joker – he was just a man with some incredibly unfortunate scars. Bruce had thought they had looked bad covered in paint, but without the makeup, they somehow managed to look even worse. Now he realized that the red greasepaint disguised rather than accentuated them; under the fluorescent lights, he could see everything – the crevices from ill-sewn stitches, the clean slash that was his right grin and the jagged one that was his left grimace, the two small but deep cuts in his lower lip… Bruce couldn't help but wonder how he got those scars, and he knew that he would probably never know the truth.

And that was the point, wasn't it? The Joker would always keep him guessing. That was the point of everything.

Then, through his musings, Bruce heard the Joker say his name. Bruce never expected to hear his name come out of that mouth. It was almost profane, but if nothing else, it made Bruce pay attention.

"Wait, wait – Commissioner Gordon _and _Bruce Wayne?" the Joker repeated after Quinselle, and he laughed. Bruce hated that laugh, and somehow it only seemed worse coming out of that almost-normal face. "Well, well! Isn't that special. You want me to, uh, do a trick for 'em, maybe recite some poetry, like a good little crazy? Or maybe - " he sat up straighter and gave Quinselle a knowing look that Bruce knew all too well " – _maaaay_be I oughta apologize to Brucie. For crashing his party, you know." He glanced at the two-way mirror out of the corners of his eyes, then back at Quinselle, and he grinned. "You'd _love_ that, wouldn't you?"

Bruce glanced briefly at Quinselle – she was holding her notepad close to her chest and idly twirling her pen in and out of her fingers, blushing and smiling. Smiling _coyly._ Concerned, Bruce looked over at Gordon, who was also frowning powerfully. He saw Bruce looking at him and shifted his weight onto his other foot. "Noticed that too, did you?" Bruce merely nodded.

"I've told you before, Mr. J," Quinselle was saying, "you should only apologize if you feel _truly_ sorry for your actions." He rolled his eyes. For the first time, Bruce noticed that they were brown – with the makeup, they always looked pitch black. "And I'm guessing that you don't feel sorry at all for crashing Bruce Wayne's party."

"Of course not," he said dismissively. "That was the best party I'd been to in years. And I mean that. Yeah, it was a, uh, fantastic party. The food, the woman, the Batman. All dee-light-ful. Except, I gotta say, I was a little… disappointed that I wasn't greeted by the host, you know." He shot a pointed look at the glass and spoke to it. "That, uh, wasn't very polite, Bruce." He shook his head and pursed his crooked lips, still looking at the glass, his greasy hair – no longer green, but rather an unhealthy yellow – trickling side to side like rain on a speeding car.

"Don't talk to the glass," said Quinselle, uncharacteristically stern. He turned his head leisurely to face her, and he raised an eyebrow slowly. "I mean it," she persisted, but her tone was weaker.

He just licked his lips and smiled darkly. "Ohhh-kay." It wasn't exactly a concession, but Bruce assumed he wasn't going to push it, simply because he knew he wouldn't get anything out of it. He leaned back in his chair, waiting for Quinselle to speak, and Bruce noticed his hands. They were together in almost a prayer-like position – not clasped, but relaxed, just barely touching. They almost looked dead.

Dr. Quinselle coughed into her hand and attempted to resume the conversation as if it had never been interrupted. "Who did greet you? At the party, I mean."

He looked up at the ceiling and pretended to think. "Uhhh. Harvey's, ah, one true love. Haha. Rachel. Pretty little thing with bright blue eyes and helluva sucker punch. She's, uh. She's dead now," he smiled, smacked his lips and glanced at the glass again.

Bruce inhaled sharply, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gordon grumble something unintelligible. The Joker had said that for Gordon, Bruce knew that, but he _felt_ like he meant it for him. Guilty conscience, he supposed, but the Joker had a way of getting under Bruce's skin that was particularly unfair – he didn't even know he was doing it. "Oh. And the Batman," he added as an afterthought. "He gave me a warrrrrrrm welcome, ha. How's that little manhunt of Gordon's going, by the way?"

"Well, he hasn't been caught, if that's what you want to know." The doctor leaned forward, obviously interested, and set her notepad down on the table. She continued to twiddle the pen with both hands, elbows resting on the table and splayed out like a child's.

"Uh-huhhhh," the Joker drawled out, eyebrows furrowed for a split second before he abruptly leaned forward and brought his cuffed wrists on top of the table, mimicking Quinselle's posture. "You know the thing about the Batman?" he said with piercing honesty. "He'll always leave you hanging. Not like me. I'll tell you everything you want to know – Batman'll allllllways keep it secret, 'cause he thinks it'll protect him. He _needs_ the mystery. Me – I just think the mystery is fun, that's all." He laughed – cackled, really – without smiling, but smiling nonetheless. Quinselle stopped fiddling her pen, totally engrossed, while Gordon shifted his weight again and Bruce held his breath.

"Take these scars, for instance." He gestured vaguely to his face with his manacled hands. "I _know _you wanna know how I got 'em, so. I had a kid once. Precocious little kid. Loved _Star Wars_, and, uh, those ri-_dic­-_ulous _Transformers._ And butter, he loooved butter. One year for Halloween, we all –uh, me and my wife – we dressed up like, uhh, like clowns. Now, my wife, she was a bit of an… addict. Always strung out, never paid attention to anything, _giggly_. That Halloween, after we got back from trick-or-treating, she hides her stash in with the candy, and my son, well. He finds it. He's seen mommy with her special candy before, so he knows what to do. While I'm washing the paint off my face, he snorts – ha – he snorts _a lot _of it. My wife's passed out on the couch, and I come out, and my son, he's got a knife in his hand, one of his butter knives, you know, and I say, 'You want some bread with your butter this time?' And I pick him up, give him a peck on the forehead, smile at him. Then I notice he's sweating. His eyes are bloodshot. I stop smiling.

"He says, 'Daddy, you're not smiling big enough.' And before I know it, he's got the knife in my mouth, and he gives me this." He turned to show the left side of his face, the side with the ragged grin, grinning for emphasis. "I drop him, of course, and he goes over to his mother and pokes her with the knife, saying, 'Mommy, mommy, mommy – can you _believe_ how good with knives I am?'"

Quinselle leaned back in her chair, one hand over her mouth and the other hugging her stomach. "How did you get the other one?" she whispered.

He laughed. "I, uh, I gave that one to myself later. Seemed stupid, to just have _half_ a smile for the, uh, rest of my life."

While he snickered a stifled, high-pitched giggle, Dr. Quinselle sat up a little straighter and rested one arm on the table, parallel to the its edge. "And, uh, what – what happened to your family?" she asked, a professional once more.

He stopped laughing mid-giggle, gave her a blank, deadly stare, and snarled lifelessly, "How should I know?"

Then, the room exploded. There was a scrape of metal against concrete, a maniacal grunt, and a piercing scream, and Gordon raced from the room, with Bruce swiftly behind him. They burst into the room one after the other, and the Joker cackled gleefully, "Commissioner! So nice of you to visit!" Without stopping, Gordon dashed over to the madman and pistol-whipped him without a second thought, which only made him laugh harder. Gordon shouted something over the frenzied laughter, but Bruce was too focused on Dr. Quinselle to hear it.

In the scuffle, she had fallen to the floor, and she seemed paralyzed with shock and fear. Her left hand was cradling her right, and blood was dripping steadily onto the concrete from her hand and down the pen impaled through the center of her palm. Her face was frozen, mouth and eyes open wide, but her expression was odd. It should have been horrified, but instead, it was exuding a morbid exhilaration. She kept looking back and forth between her hand and the Joker, who was still writhing hysterically beneath Gordon's knee, even though Bruce was practically shouting at her to look at him. She seemed mesmerized with her hand, and not once did she look at Bruce.

Almost as soon as Bruce and Gordon entered the room, four orderlies rushed in and secured the Joker. Bruce couldn't tell through the haze of the struggle, but he thought he saw one of them give the Joker a sedative, which stopped his thrashing but not his laughter. He continued cackling wildly as the orderlies dragged him to his feet and hauled him out the door. When they passed Bruce, he looked up from Quinselle and at the Joker – the Joker was staring straight at him, wickedly. With blood decanting from his nose like a particularly fine wine, he said thickly through a drug-induced slur, "Leperrrr." Then he winked and dissolved into hazy giggles as the orderlies pulled him out the door.

Bruce blinked and glanced at Gordon, who was now on Quinselle's other side, trying to get through to her. He hadn't been paying any attention to the Joker as he left the room. Bruce exhaled with short-lived relief, then took his blazer off and ripped a portion of the sleeve off for Quinselle's hand. As soon as the Joker was out of the room, Quinselle's whole being changed – it seemed like she finally realized that yes, there _was_ a pen sticking out of her hand, and she began moaning in pain. Bruce and Gordon tried to calm her, but as they waited for the medical doctors, she only seemed to get worse.

Suddenly, Bruce wrenched the pen out of her hand. It came out with a sickening squelch, and she howled with pain. Gordon was speechless for a moment, and then he fumed, "What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

Bruce glanced at him as he threw the pen to the ground. "I wasn't."

* * *

Later, Alfred asked, "Had he done anything like that before? To Dr. Quinselle, or the other doctors, perhaps?"

"No," Bruce told him, head between his still bloody hands. "Never. He just did it today because he had an audience. He wanted to prove that even locked up, he's unstoppable."

Alfred didn't say anything.

"And that _woman,"_ Bruce continued, musing. "She had no control over him – _he_ was running that session, not her. She's more fascinated than afraid of him, I think." He sighed. "You were right, Alfred. This was beyond stupid."

"I'm glad you think so, sir," Alfred said softly. He waited a moment before he asked gravely, "Do you think he knows?"

Bruce looked up and nodded slowly, face blank. "I'm sure of it."


	4. Cannot Sleep Warm

**Title:** Chelsea Grin – "Cannot Sleep Warm" (4/?)  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Fandom:** The Dark Knight  
**Genre:** General, crime drama  
**Characters:** This chapter, Harvey Dent, the Joker, and Dr. Quinselle; various others.  
**Summary:** "It's ironic. This is exactly what Harvey wanted – a lifeless mob, incapable of harming even one of Gotham's citizens. This is not what I want. I want Gotham to suffer." Harvey's POV.  
**Word count**: 3,449  
**Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to DC. I'm just messing around.  
**Author's Note:** Charlotte Martin's cover of "I Am Stretched Out On Your Grave" is MAGNIFICENT and ever so Harvey. Also, this was a lot more fun than the last part. And there will be more! I changed my mind about ending this fic after four parts – I have a lot more ideas than I thought I did. :)

* * *

No one in Gotham pays attention to the homeless, or to the dead. When I was alive – when _Harvey_ was alive, I planned to change that, eradicate Gotham's apathy; now, I exploit it. No one looks twice at me – no one even _looks _at me. It's useful. I never have to hide, because no one wants to see a dead man.

I'm more than underground – I'm in the underworld.

I don't know how Gordon got away with it. Burying me. Maybe because he televised my funeral in all its sordid glory, or maybe because his city was too busy trying to apprehend my murderer to notice that my casket was closed for a _reason_.

My murderer, ha. The Batman's no murderer. He's just a catalyst between what was then and what is now. I understand that now.

Then, I was Harvey Dent. I was Gotham's hero. My city was corrupt, but I was changing that. I had Rachel to help me, to keep me sane.

Now, Harvey is gone. Gotham has no hero anymore. It's more corrupt than ever, because Harvey picked at the scabs. I have no one, not even myself.

I visit her grave, and Harvey's, every night. I talk to them, quietly. I make plans, I flip my coin, I sit there and do nothing.

Both graves are empty, so I talk to no one.

Rachel is dead and Harvey is dead. Nothing can change that. Everything is dead now. Except… except my murderer.

* * *

Finding (the remains) the mob was easy. Pathetic and leaderless, they congregated where they always did: at the Italian restaurant on 6th and Henning, where they waited for a new Carmine, a new Sal, maybe even a Chechen or a Gambol. Like me, they sat around and did nothing – I know, because I watched them. All they had now was Carmine's youngest son, Alberto Falcone, and everybody in Gotham knew that he was a useless criminal. No brains and no brawn. No good to anybody.

One day, I follow Falcone down the piers, and I think – I think, while we were trying to cripple each other, we crippled the mob instead. Batman, the Joker, Harvey, me – we all dealt a fatal blow to organized crime, and because of us, Al can't even sell his drugs to the most desperate junkie south of the harbor.

It's ironic. This is exactly what Harvey wanted – a lifeless mob, incapable of harming even one of Gotham's citizens. This is not what I want. I want Gotham to suffer.

* * *

Why do I keep coming here? There's nothing here but dust. Her dust.

* * *

It's snowing when I walk down 6th and Henning. I'm wearing my old suit, the one Harvey died in, and the snowflakes drift and catch on the charred wool, almost like dandruff. They catch on my face too, and I can almost feel the sudden cold wetness through the scars. My teeth are cold; they freeze with every breath.

I walk right through the doors of Eliseo's. The thugs guarding the doorway are too shocked to stop me – they _have_ seen a ghost, and he is too horrifying to even make them scream.

When the leftovers of the mob see me, they all jump out of their chairs and pull out their guns – all but Al Falcone. He just sits there, a slice of pizza halfway between his mouth and his plate, his mouth open so wide that I can see a piece of olive stuck between his molars. I focus on Al, ignoring the rest of them. The restaurant is totally silent, until I walk up to their so-called "leader" – then, there are the sounds of hurried bumps and scrapes, as his men back away and into the tables and chairs behind them. They're afraid of me.

I sit down across from Al, and I put my gun on the table and pull out my coin. "Call it," I say, holding the coin in my palm.

"What for?" is his slow, stupid reply. His mouth is still hanging open, and his brow is a testament to permanent confusion.

"Call it, and you'll find out."

He bobs his scrawny neck up and down, looking remarkably like a broken bobble-head. "Okay," he mumbles through the pizza. "Heads."

I flip the coin, and I hear every man hold his breath. I catch it, and one man coughs. I turn it over – it isn't the heads they're hoping for. Not two seconds later, Al Falcone's head looks exactly like his half-eaten pizza.

Ten seconds later, I have a job again.

* * *

I don't have any plans. I have _ideas_ – the outcome of one idea decides what the next one will be. Everything boils down to a choice and a chance of fifty-fifty. Yes or no. Alive or dead. Help or hinder. Hero or villain.

I can only think in absolutes now.

* * *

"Taking over the mob is a start," I tell Rachel and Harvey, "but it won't get me what I want."

The cemetery looks different in the daylight. It's less death-like, but more morbid at the same time, because you can see every name on every grave, every epitaph. The light snowfall makes the air clearer, starker, brighter. For the first time in months, I feel out of place here.

I kneel down before Rachel's grave and finger my coin. "You know what I want, Rachel, I don't have to tell you. And I know that you don't approve. That doesn't matter. Harvey wouldn't either. You both wanted to protect Gotham, to save it – but how can you save a city with no soul, a city that sacrifices its best and only hope just so that tomorrow, everything will be back to normal? You can't. You can only destroy it and hope that something better takes its place.

"Rachel, don't you see? It wasn't a man that killed you and Harvey – it was Gotham. Gotham killed you. Gotham killed me." I stand up, wipe the snow from my knees, and sigh.

"But the mob… I can change it into what I need it to be, but it'll take at least a year, maybe two. I can't wait that long."

My thoughts drift and wander, and so do my feet. I pace around Harvey and Rachel's grave, thinking, thinking. I need – no, I _crave_ immediate results. Quick punishment. Something that would weaken Gotham and prime it for chaos.

Ahh.

Then, my thoughts stop abruptly at the sound of a car on gravel, and only then do I realize that I have been thinking out loud this whole time. Rachel used to hate that.

I know there's a mausoleum not far from their graves – I sprint over to it and go inside. It's the perfect – well, the only hiding place in the cemetery. Nobody will see me in here, but I will see them. I peer through a small window (I think, _Do the dead need windows?)_, and I see a man I have not seen since before Harvey died.

Bruce Wayne.

He and his butler are visiting Rachel's grave – and Harvey's, I'm surprised to see. Bruce stops at Harvey's grave first, wipes off the snow on the headstone, and places a small bouquet of lilies at its foot. I blink. After Harvey died, a new bouquet of lilies appeared on his grave every week. It's odd to think that they were from Bruce Wayne.

He turns to Alfred, who hands him another bouquet – roses, this time. Rachel's favorite. He kneels down and carefully, _lovingly_ cleans her headstone, places the roses to the side so that her name can still be read. Even from inside the mausoleum, I can hear him whisper, "Happy birthday, Rachel."

My breath catches, and I see Alfred put a comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder, and they walk away together somberly.

December 18th. How – _how_ could I forget?

* * *

On Christmas Eve, I see that I'm not the only one who doesn't spend the holidays with his family. Gotham has no time for families, and even less respect for them. I happen to share that sentiment. Gotham is no place to raise a family. Or to hope to.

Visiting Rachel and Harvey is not an option today. I have more important things to do.

I watch Major Crimes for a few hours in the morning, without my new associates. I don't want to be seen with them yet – that will come later. Gordon gets there early. He has a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other, and I scoff. It's unbelievable how old-fashioned that man is – still is, after everything. Gordon the idealist, Gordon the incorruptible, Gordon the stalwart hero – Commissioner Jim Gordon, truly unchangeable. For a moment, I envy him, but the moment passes quickly as he vanishes behind the doors of MCU.

Over the next hour, the rest of the MCU trickles in, one detective after another. There are a few that I recognize – Stephens, Dimitri, Chen, Adams – but there are more that I don't. No Ramirez. Finally, Gordon cleaned house.

When I watch people or places, I don't bother with subtlety. What's the point? There's no point in trying to hide when both sides of my face cannot be disguised. So I just sit outside of a coffee shop and watch MCU. I don't have any coffee. I'm not wearing a hat or any kind of mask. I'm right out in the open for anyone to see, but somehow, I'm invisible.

I leave when I know for certain that I'm not going to hear any sirens. Today, Gotham knows better.

* * *

I wander for hours, not quite aimlessly, until I find what I'm looking for: the new and improved Arkham Asylum. I give it a quick once over – it looks just like City Hall, just like Harvey wanted it to – and I head to the employee parking lot in the back. Behind a heap of bulldozed snow, there's a sleek black Mercedes waiting for me – Alberto Falcone's favorite ride, according to my new number two. I open the driver's seat door, tell the driver to get out and go away. I'm doing this alone.

He leaves without a word. Unlike some of his former comrades, he knows not to argue with me.

I get in the car and hear the radio playing softly – Edith Piaf, of all things. One of Rachel's favorites, and her mother's. I turn it off immediately. I have no time for music, or for Rachel. Not today.

This isn't the first time I've watched Arkham. You can learn a lot about a place just by sitting in its parking lot for a few hours. In all of Arkham, the only place the doctors and nurses can speak privately on their cell phones, or get any reception at all, is here by their cars, where doctor-patient privilege doesn't exist. Doctors will say anything when they think no one is listening.

Sooner than I anticipate, the skyscrapers obscure the sun, and within moments, Gotham is a black hole. The occasional galaxy of drifting snow loops around the parking lot, but other than that, it's empty. Hours or seconds later, Arkham releases its employees for the night – one by one, they make their way through the void to their cars, and they evaporate. They don't matter to me. I don't care what happens to them once they leave my sight. I don't care that suddenly this parking lot has turned cosmic, until the doctor I've been waiting for eases through the cold to her petite Honda, gets in, and drives away.

She looks upset. Flustered, even. But, despite everything, determined. An interesting change from her usual cold smirk.

I follow her. I've followed her before, once or twice, but this time, she drives north instead of west – towards the harbor instead of her apartment. Strange. There's nothing by the piers that could possibly interest a psychiatrist like her. I know – the harbor, that's my territory now. Even though Gotham thinks the mob is comatose, people like her – doctors, lawyers, Harvey's old crowd – are smart enough to stay away from the piers. To them, it's a festering abyss of filth. Better to let it rot.

But it seems that this time, I'm wrong about the good doctor. She parks in front of one of the only stores open on Christmas Eve: not a pharmacy, as one would expect, but a sex shop. Even therapists have their kinks, I suppose.

She doesn't even bother to turn off her car before she scurries across the sidewalk and into the grungy shop. Her blonde hair turns pink under the red neon lights, and as soon as she disappears behind the foggy glass, I park my car behind hers and lock it. Al Falcone had good taste in cars, after all.

When she comes back out, I think she must be either stupid or incredibly absentminded, because she doesn't notice me sitting in the passenger's seat until _after_ she buckles her seatbelt. Surprisingly, she doesn't shriek or scream or jump – instead, she smiles slowly, widely, incredulously. She whispers, "Wow. Harvey Dent. Isn't this a Christmas miracle." She laughs once and shakes her head.

"You should look up the definition of 'miracle' again, Harlean. I'm anything but miraculous," I say, and I pull my gun out of my jacket. She glances at it briefly, then looks at my face. She seems impressed, but not with me. That much is obvious.

"He was right," she breathes, still looking at me but talking to herself. "About you. About everything. How is that possible? One man – one man can't be right about _everything_, I mean, it's impossible, right?" A few hysterical giggles let loose from her pale lips. "He is _insane_, after all." She rolls her eyes.

I don't need to ask who she's talking about.

"What's in the bag?" I ask emotionlessly, pointing with my gun in a very mobster-like fashion to the crumpled plastic in her lap.

She looks down at it, half bewildered and half mad, touching it hesitantly with her right hand. "About a month ago," she begins quietly, "Pascal took all my patients away from me – all but _him_. Told me I needed to concentrate exclusively on Mr. J. Since I'm the only one he'll talk to, it had to be _me_, even though he… he stabbed me. With a pen. Pascal wanted me to – well, not _cure_ him, but make him less… insane. More fit to stand trial. But, the thing is, I've been seeing him three times a day for almost eight months now, and nothing's changed. Not one thing."

She looks up at me, suddenly and fiercely. "I know Pascal's your friend – or he was, before you died, but he's wrong, he's _completely_ wrong about Mr. J. He's not _in_sane. He's _super_-sane. Everything he thinks and says and does makes perfect sense – it's just the _way_ he thinks that horrifies everyone else, because his normal, everyday thoughts are the thoughts we don't _allow_ ourselves to think."

"What," I repeat, "is in the bag?"

She turns her right hand over and looks into it, strokes her palm with her left thumb. There's a small, raised scar there, perfectly circular and white. "I said a stupid thing today. Pascal, he told me to bring up –" she laughs bitterly "– _facial reconstruction._ And I did, and it ruined everything." She closes her eyes and clenches her hand. "Stupid bastard."

I stay silent. She sighs and opens the bag. "He didn't even say anything. He just _looked_ at me and stopped – stopped talking. To _me_. He's never done that to me before. So I got him this, to sort of make up for whatever I did to offend him. It's a Christmas present, see. Pascal can fuck himself, by the way," she added as a savage afterthought.

She shows it to me. Clown paint.

"I have a better idea," I say.

* * *

Behind me, Harlean is fidgeting nervously, constantly smoothing out the purple suit in her arms and smothering frantic giggles. I have a gun to Pascal's head, and his hands shake violently as he types the code into the keypad. "No mistakes, Tristy," I remind him. "I don't want Gordon to crash our little Christmas party."

"You know how I feel about guns, Harvey," Pascal hisses, more frightened than angry. He finishes, and the door – the third door, actually – unlocks with a loud clang.

I shake my head, disappointed. "I'm surprised Gotham hasn't changed that for you yet." I push the gun compellingly into his balding scalp; he practically jumps forward to open the door for the three of us. "How many more of these are there?"

"Two," Harlean answers, too cheerfully. "You can thank Bruce Wayne for that."

I grunt and shove Pascal a little more forcefully than necessary. The next time I see Bruce Wayne, I think, it will have to be the last.

Pascal rubs his recently bruised cheek and huffs, "I need Harlean for this next one." I nod at her; she skips around me and next to Pascal, who is standing in front of a small screen by the doorframe. "Same as always," he grumbles to her. Simultaneously, they each touch one of their thumbs to one half of the screen for three seconds exactly – this door slides open, and we slide through.

I don't know how Pascal opens the last door. He tells us to stand back, and he stands in front of it for an interminable amount of time, perfectly still. Harlean fidgets next to me, impatient and insanely giddy. Just when I'm about to say something, the door opens so quickly that it looks like it disappears into thin air, revealing a corridor of heavily barred doors, and Harlean makes an excited noise. "Dr. Quinselle, I wish you would control yourself," Pascal murmurs grumpily.

"And I wish _you_ would – "

"Shut up, both of you," I growl, and I push Pascal into the corridor; Harlean follows us. "Now, which one is his?"

"The last one," Pascal indicates with a nod of his head.

"Does it need a key?"

"No. With the rest of the security upgrades, we felt that anything more than a deadbolt would be superfluous in this wing."

I take out my coin, flip it, and put it back in my pocket. "That's too bad, Tristan. Another fancy lock, and you could've gone to your mother's for Christmas dinner."

Confused, he half turns to face me, and I shoot him. He falls hard onto his face, and Harlean laughs. "Boy, have I been waiting to see _that_," she snickers.

I look at her for a moment. It's hard to believe that this is the same woman Rachel vouched for when Harvey straightened out Arkham. That woman was a professional; this one is worse than a hormonal schoolgirl. "Have you always been this crazy?" I ask, skeptical.

She looks up at the ceiling. "Well," she says thoughtfully, "I've always been a good liar. Does that answer your question?" She smiles sweetly, unnervingly.

I blink disinterestedly and say, "Go open his door."

"Sure thing!" she says, and as soon as her back is turned, I take my coin out again and flip it. Heads. Ah, well.

I shoot the back of her foot instead of the back of her head. She falls forward, howling, and the Joker's costume flies out of her arms. Casually, I step over Pascal's body and walk over to her. She's whimpering and writhing in pain. Looking down at her, I say blandly, "Feel free to tell Gordon it was all my idea when you wake up," and I club her with the gun. She stops moving, but not breathing. Good.

* * *

I turn the deadbolt, open the door, and there he is. He's just lying there on his cot, arms behind his head and legs crossed at the ankles. He raises his head slightly to look at me – sees _me_ and grins. "Well, well, if it isn't Santy Claus himself," he drawls. He sits up agilely and gives me an earnest look. "You know, you don't look a _thing_ like my mommy said."

Grinding my teeth, I say, "I'm not here to play games."

"Oh, really, now?" He peers at the wreckage behind me. "Coulda fooled me."

I throw Harlean's Christmas present to him. He catches it deftly, and his face contorts into a knowing smile. "Hurry up," I tell him. "We've got work to do."


	5. Got Six Troubles

**Title:** Chelsea Grin – "Got Six Troubles" (5/?)**  
Rating:** PG-13**  
Fandom:** The Dark Knight**  
Genre:** Crime drama**  
Characters:** Jim Gordon, Harlean Quinselle, Batman, and a brief appearance by Pamela Isley.**  
Summary:** "You know, you're the second nonexistent man to sneak up on me tonight." Alternating POVs – Gordon and Harley.**  
Word count**: 3,144**  
Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to DC. I'm just messing around.**  
Author's Note:** This took FOREVER, for which I apologize profusely. I blame school, and Gordon. He led me astray, and I wrote myself into a hole. It was traumatic, but more than that, it was silly. Still, from now on, I'll probably only update once a month, though hopefully the next part will come quicker than that. It'll be better than this one, I promise. :)

* * *

On Christmas morning, Jim Gordon expected to wake up to the sound of his drowsy children, to feel his son's persistent pokes or his daughter's small weight crawling up the bed between him and wife and settling there until they woke up.

This Christmas was different. His house was empty. His bed was empty. He slept on the couch, because he was too exhausted to make it past the living room after work. He didn't even put up a Christmas tree this year.

And, this year, his phone woke him up. Not his kids. His _cell phone_.

Gordon honestly thought that nothing could be worse than _this_ – this feeling of pure emptiness, of cold silence where there should have been shouts of glee, of a life and a family that was no longer within his reach – and then he answered his phone.

In all his life, he'd never felt so small.

* * *

Arkham Asylum was a surreal sight that morning, and Gordon sighed as he drove past it. The scene was a cruel irony – the last time so many police cars had congregated in one place had been the day they had_ caught_ the Joker.

He parked a few blocks from the building, not because he felt like walking, but because he needed the cold air to clear his head. A tough day lay ahead of him, an impossible day, and he had to be ready for it – not just for himself, but for his men as well. They looked to him for reassurance; he was their last vestige of law and order, their last sanctuary. He wasn't sure if he was up to it today, but that didn't matter. He _had_ to be.

Because of the cold, to walk slowly was to give yourself a long bout of pneumonia – it wasn't an option, and so he arrived at Arkham within minutes. Dodging the press line skillfully, he flashed his badge at a uniformed cop guarding the doors and gave the young officer a grim nod of thanks as he passed into the lobby.

Lieutenant Stephens was standing in the middle of a crowd of detectives, giving them individual orders and holding two cups of coffee. He took a drink between sentences and half-turned his head, looking around. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Gordon walking toward him, turned around, and saluted him with the other coffee cup. "Commissioner," he called hoarsely. "Saved this for you."

"Thanks, Lieutenant," Gordon replied tersely, taking the proffered cup. He took a tentative sip of the coffee and nearly spat it out – that was just what he needed, ice-cold hospital coffee – but even so, he downed the whole cup in a single gulp. He learned a long time ago that sometimes you had to put your gag reflex to the test for the promise of caffeine.

Automatically, he surveyed the lobby over the rim of his cup, and his ever-present frown deepened in disapproval. Strangely luxuriant, Arkham's lobby was more like that of a hotel, and it was large – too large for a private hospital that didn't get much foot traffic, though with the amount of cops combing every corner of the room, it seemed smaller than a matchbox. Gordon grimaced as he drank the dregs of the coffee, cleared his throat, and asked straightforwardly, "Everything's downstairs?"

"Yeah, in the basement," Stephens confirmed, and he nodded to the elevator across the room. Gordon headed towards it, throwing his cup away carelessly as he passed a lonely trashcan, and Stephens followed him. As they crossed the room, the crowd split, making room for their last hope to go through and fix this mess. Gordon didn't have the heart to look them in eye today; instead, he focused on Stephens, listening intently to what he said. "Nothing's been moved, except Dr. Quinselle. The paramedics took her to Wayne Memorial – her leg's pretty much shot to hell. Villaire's with her."

Gordon nodded approvingly. "Good, good – I'm gonna want to talk to her after we finish here." They reached the elevator, and he pushed the down button and glanced at Stephens. "Let's, uh, let's go downstairs, get his over with, huh?"

Unavoidably, Stephens heard the melancholy frustration in Gordon's voice. "You know, Jim," he said under his breath, putting a reassuring hand on Gordon's shoulder, "it was bound to happen sometime."

The elevator dinged, and Gordon stepped forward, giving Stephens a backward look. "Just had to be Christmas, right?"

Stephens grunted and followed him into the elevator. "Yeah. Had to be Christmas."

* * *

She awoke, but her eyes remained shut. She sniffed. Stale air. Stale death. A hospital, then. Not Arkham. Arkham's air smelled like insanity. Like him.

She bolted upright. Where was he? Gone now, thanks to Dent. Hopefully not here.

Odd. The lights weren't on. Hospitals only turned off the lights if the patient died. She looked down at herself. She didn't _feel_ dead. Just a little medicated.

Okay, a _lot_ medicated. She couldn't keep both of her eyes open at the same time to save her life, but she could feel the blood pulsing through her wounded ankle, even through the morphine. She raised an arm to scratch an itch on her neck and felt a tug on the inside of her forearm. An IV. Her stomach turned. She hated needles.

Blearily, she looked away from her arm – and Gotham's most wanted vigilante materialized from out of the shadows. She wasn't much of a screamer, so she just gave him a disinterested look and slurred, "You know, you're the second nonexistent man to sneak up on me tonight."

Batman glared at her. Huh. She probably should have been intimidated, but the morphine took care of that for her. She decided that she liked morphine. Or Vicodin. Whatever the hell it was, she liked it.

"Who was it, Quinselle?" Batman growled. Growled! He _growled _at her. Even her craziest crazies never _growled_ at her. Her jaw slackened at the thought and a slow, painful laugh flew from her lips and sent her backwards into her flat hospital pillows. That was pretty damn funny. "Who _was_ it?" he repeated, fiercer.

She pretended to think for a moment. Who indeed. Her eyes went from one side of the room to the other, blinking each time they from right to left. "Uhh. Who was what? I mean, you're gonna have to be a little more specific – for all I know, you could be asking who wrote _East of Eden_, or who the lead singer of the Killers is, or even who shot JFK - "

Before she knew it, Batman had her by the neck, holding her inches off the bed. She could smell his breath. Coffee breath? That was unexpected, not to mention weird. "The Joker, Quinselle," he growled quietly. "Who let the Joker out?"

"Ah, right," she said breathlessly. "That would be… me. Sort of. Wasn't my idea, but I helped. But I really didn't have a choice! He had a gun to my head. Uh. Literally. Maybe."

He glared some more. This close, she had to admit, he _was_ pretty intimidating.

"Er, right, this guy, he… he had a big scar on his face. Real ugly. Kinda looked like Sundance, if Butch ever hit him in the face with a coffeepot full of hot coffee, you know?"

His eyes narrowed. They were hazel. She blinked, suddenly grasping that Batman was a real person – he wasn't just some personification of justice, a nameless phantasm feared by all of Gotham's criminals, as she had always thought him to be. A real person, with real eyes. "Tell me who he was," he demanded through clenched teeth. Perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. A real goddamn person.

This time, she narrowed her eyes. "Interesting question. I can tell you exactly who he _was_, but I can't tell you who he _is._ Now. Which would you rather know, is or was?"

"Give me a _name_," he snarled, and he pulled her higher off the bed. She felt the IV in her forearm tug nauseatingly, and a small whimper escaped her lips.

"F-fine." Her eyes rolled in exaggerated annoyance. "You want it? Fine." She paused, and her eyelashes fluttered involuntarily. Damn drugs. "Calls himself Two-face. That _name_ ring any bells?"

His guard slipped, and for a moment, there was obvious shock in his eyes. He quickly replaced it with – what was _that_ supposed to be, righteous anger? – and dropped her. She made a sound like a wounded kitten, and then, _right_ then, the pain caught up with her. As she bit her lip and held back a powerful groan, he slipped away, silently, furiously, maybe even cowardly.

She giggled deliriously a few times before she passed out. Whatever name he was expecting, it wasn't that one.

* * *

When Commissioner Gordon and some lieutenant came in later to question her, he asked for the truth, and Harlean agreed to give it, but she lied. Part of her wanted to tell him the truth, tell him _exactly_ who freed the Joker, but another _newer_ part of her decided that the truth was even more boring than this hospital, and _that_ was a feat in and of itself. All she wanted was a little stimulation, so she lied. Plain and simple.

Ever the gentleman, the Commissioner kindly asked her what had happened this morning, and she told him the truth – a slightly altered version of the truth, of course, but the truth nonetheless. Really, she only changed two itty-bitty, practically insignificant details: the how and the who. It was almost too easy.

The how? Well, according to Harlean, she and Pascal - may that lovely man rest in peace, he was such a _wonderful_ director – were forced against their will to turn off the security cameras and to lead the perp directly to the Joker. It was incredibly traumatizing, she told them – he had pointed a gun at her and _everything_. (For that, she had even made her voice tremble. In her mind, she was just as good as Jean Harlow ever was.)

And the who?

Batman, of course.

At that, Gordon froze and gave her a long, scrutinizing stare, and the lieutenant coughed quietly. "Batman," the Commissioner said skeptically. "Really."

"Oh, yeah, it was definitely the Batman," she continued helpfully. "He's got brown eyes – more like hazel, actually – and these really, really white teeth. And there's that ridiculous growl, you know, like he's coughing up a fur ball all the time. I bet he gets laryngitis a lot." And she winked. Probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, but it was completely involuntary. She had a hard time controlling herself these days.

Despite whatever damage that wink might have done to her credibility, she could tell that Gordon believed her. Not willingly, of course, but he believed her – she had given him enough facts that he _had_ to believe her, even though it was obvious he didn't want to. He walked over to the window, disbelief and betrayal both apparent on his face. It was almost sad, how crushed he looked. Almost. Today, Harlean didn't feel very sympathetic.

When Gordon continued to stare out the window, morose and silent, the lieutenant took over for him. "Uh, Dr. Quinselle," he coughed awkwardly, "just one more question. Is there, ah, anyone we can call for you before we leave?"

Harlean thought for a moment. "Well. There's my friend Pam – her number's in my cell phone, though, which I'm pretty sure I left in my car. I can't remember the number off the top of my head." Lies, both of them. Dent had thrown her phone out the window on the way back to Arkham, and she had Pam's phone numbers memorized – all four of them.

"What make and model, and your friend's full name, please?" The detective had his pen poised and ready, which Harlean thought looked ridiculous. She struggled not to laugh as she said, "It's an '01 Honda Civic. Bright red, not that burgundy shit. And my friend, that's Pam, uh, Beesley – she teaches… art over at Gotham High. Shouldn't be too hard to find her." More lies. Pam's last name was Isley, and she taught botany at Gotham University. Harlean liked this game. It was so easy to lie to the police when your leg was bandaged like a mummy on its way to Osiris.

"Mmhm," the detective murmured as he shorthanded the information. Gordon turned around, hands on hips and eyebrows furrowed, and the two policemen exchanged significant looks. Harlean was smart enough to know what that meant. As soon as she got out of the hospital, she was going to have to get a new car. How annoying.

Resigned, they both thanked her for her cooperation and left quickly. She heard the detective say under his breath, "Well, at least we know how he got away so fast, right?" Gordon merely nodded, and they disappeared into the hospital's busy hallways.

Oddly, Harlean felt both satisfied and disgusted with herself. Though really, it wasn't so odd – these days, her mental state was almost weather-like in its instability. One minute, she was a cheery spring day, a little chilly but generally decent, and the next, she was a hurricane, unmerciful and unstoppable. Her weatherman wasn't any help, either. Even though he had the radar in front of him, he didn't bother with the forecast - he just let her tempestuous mood swings destroy what was left of her sanity, grinning through it all.

The thought of him made Harlean shiver, though from what, she wasn't sure. Fear, glee, fascination – it was all the same to her now. And more than anything, she knew that she needed to get out of this hospital before he was tempted to find her, or before she was tempted to find _him_. Tempted, ha – she was already tempted; she needed to get out before she _acted_ on those temptations, and she needed someone to stop her if she did.

In a rare moment of lucidity, she frantically grabbed the hospital phone by her bed and dialed Pam's number – not her cell number, not her home number, but her _private_ number, which she was certain only two people in the entire world knew. Harlean closed her eyes in relief when Pam answered on the second ring. "Al, why the _fuck_ haven't you called me for two weeks, and why the _fuck _are you calling me at eight in the goddamn morning on _fucking Christmas_?_!_"

"Hey, Red," Harlean breathed. "I need a huge favor."

The line was silent for a moment. "Harley, if you ask me for weed, I swear to God I'll stuff it down your throat."

Harlean rolled her eyes. "Pam, when was the last time I asked you for weed?"

"Right, stupid question. So. What's this favor?"

"I need you to get me out of Wayne Memorial. Um. Quick-like."

Pam laughed, clear and bright. "Sure, let me just put on my fucking _Batman_ suit, and I'll be right down, okay?" And she hung up.

Harlean smiled.

* * *

As soon as they left the hospital, Stephens put out an APB on Quinselle's car, but the car had already been found - or rather, the car had found them.

Eerily reminiscent of Arkham Asylum earlier this morning, the scene in front of City Hall was one of unmitigated chaos. There were dozens of photographers and the flashing lights and incessant cries that came with them, and even more policemen attempting to herd the photographers to the other side of the street where they belonged. As soon as Gordon stepped out of his car and slammed the door, Detective Murphy ran up to him, looking unnerved and shaken. "What happened?" Gordon snapped over the noise.

"That Honda you were looking for? Ten minutes ago, it crashed through the front doors of City Hall," Murphy shouted, "right under Dent's old office, if you can believe it." He scoffed humorlessly. "This guy really has no shame."

"Was anybody hurt?" Stephens yelled from behind them.

"Nah, everybody's either at home with their kids or at MCU trying to sort out this mess," Murphy replied over his shoulder, leading them through the crowd. "Just lucky, I guess."

They made it through without much hassle, and the closer they got to the wreckage, the quieter the atmosphere became. Gordon exhaled sharply as he caught sight of the car – it was bright red, just like Quinselle said, and parked right where the revolving glass door had been twenty minutes ago. He ran a hand through his hair and asked exasperatedly, "Do we know who was driving?"

Murphy sniffed and shrugged. "Some homeless guy. Doesn't matter – before the paramedics took him away, he told us that a guy in clown makeup paid him two hundred bucks to crash the car into City Hall. I think we know who the culprit is."

Stephens shook his head and snarled, "Damn clown. He's not gonna get away with this."

"Let's hope so," Gordon murmured, soft and solemn. And then he squinted. "What's that on the trunk?"

"Paint," Murphy said quickly, avoiding eye contact. "Green and white. It's all over the car."

Gordon glanced quickly back and forth between Murphy and the car. He had a feeling he knew what was painted on the car, judging from Murphy's behavior, but he needed to see for himself. "We're going to need a full work-up of this car," he ordered at once, and he walked toward the car to get a closer look. "Paint analysis, fingerprints, everything!"

"You got it, Commissioner," Stephens replied firmly, while Murphy shifted and gave a small nod.

Stepping carefully over broken glass and mangled steel, Gordon came upon the car faster than he thought he would – one second, he was avoiding a particularly nasty piece of glass, and the next, there was the car. And there was the graffiti.

Scrawled all over the car were the words, "MERRY XMAS, COMMISSIONER!" in alternating green and white. The sickeningly familiar scribble covered almost every inch of the car, in all sizes and varying degrees of neatness and spelling. It almost looked like a child's Christmas card, sloppy yet obviously done with great care. The interior of the car was similarly affected – it was slashed and painted, vandalized with the Joker's faceless grin, his calling card. There was even a tidy bow, purple and orange and clashing mightily with the rest of the decorations, tied to the steering wheel.

Gift-wrapped. The Joker had literally gift-wrapped the car for him, the bastard.

Gordon set his jaw, turned around, and walked away, muttering bitterly, "Had to be Christmas, and it had to be Christmas colors." He shook his head. Even he couldn't deny the irony.


	6. A God Kissing Carrion

**Title:** Chelsea Grin – "A God Kissing Carrion" (6/?**)  
Rating:** PG-13**  
Fandom:** The Dark Knight**  
Genre:** Crime drama**  
Characters:** The Joker, Two-Face, Batman, Gordon.**  
Summary:** A conversation can go one of two ways, just like everything else in the world.**  
Word count:** 1,788**  
Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to DC. I'm just messing around.**  
Author's Note:** I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. School literally came out of nowhere and bit me in the ass, and I didn't get a chance to write anything until yesterday, when classes ended. Ironically, I wrote most of this chapter in my Calculus class, to which I could not pay attention even if you _paid_ me. Hopefully I'll be able to write more often in the next couple of months, but I'm not promising anything. Just know that I refuse to give up on this story! It's basically my baby, so how could I, lol.

One more thing: about two months ago, a reviewer brought to my attention that someone, intentionally or not, had plagiarized me. This person has since taken her story down, but I just want to say that if there's one thing in the world that I absolutely CANNOT tolerate, it's plagiarism. I know there's nothing I can really do about it here on ffnet, but if you see anything that is obviously, _obviously_ plagiarism, whether it's of my work or someone else's, please let the author know so that they can take care of it. Also, if you want to write something that is inspired by or based on another person's work, MAKE SURE that you say so! If you credit your inspiration, then it's not plagiarism, is it? ;)

Oh, and THANK YOU SO MUCH for all your reviews! They really keep me going. :)

* * *

A conversation can go one of two ways, just like everything else in the world. You either get what you want out of it, or you don't. These days, Two-Face is pretty good at getting what he wants out of a conversation. With his coin in one hand, a loaded .45 in the other, and his naturally charming smile – now only half-charming – on his face, Two-Face is impossible to refuse. You can't refuse a man who is no longer a man, you just can't.

But Two-Face learns quickly that all three – coin, gun, and charisma – are useless against the man sitting across from him. You can't manipulate a man who doesn't believe in fate, who has no sense of self-preservation, who enjoys the kind of aura that only kings and gods, not clowns, should possess.

So, for once, he doesn't persuade. He just listens.

* * *

"You know, Harvey," the Joker says through a mouthful of calamari. "You've got a classic look. Real classic."

"Don't call me Harvey."

"Seriously. Has anyone ever told you that?" He pauses to swallow, narrows his eyes to inspect his companion's face. "It's weird, you almost look like Sundance."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but _you_ don't look like Butch."

He licks his lips and pops another fried squid into his mouth. Two-Face can't help but stare at the scars – they're fascinating, morphing and almost disappearing as the Joker frenetically chews his food. "Yeah, that's true," he admits slowly. "But as long as we're being honest, I don't really look like anybody, do I?" He grins, laughing as he lifts a butter knife from the table and touches the edge idly with his thumb.

"No, no, you don't. But you do remind me of somebody."

"Huh. That's disappointing."

Two-Face opens his mouth.

"No, no, don't tell me." He leans forward and winks conspiratorially, saying, "I'd rather not know." Then, out of nowhere, the Joker stabs the table with the butter knife.

Everybody but Two-Face jumps. "Any reason for that?" Two-Face asks, dead in his indifference.

"Nah. Just a little experiment." The Joker wrenches the knife out of the table, inspects it, and stabs one of the few remaining shrimp on his plate. He grins and throws something – maybe a carrot – at one of Two-Face's men. The man, a well-trained thug named Enzo, barely blinks. The Joker rolls his eyes in disappointment, throws another carrot at the thug, and glances at Two-Face. "I mean. They don't really _do_ much, do they?"

"They do what I tell them to do."

A flicker of surprise flits over the Joker's face. "Already?" he says, genuinely impressed. Some small part of Two-Face feels vaguely disturbed at that. "That's fast work, Harv. Here, have a carrot."

He knifes a carrot and points it at Two-Face. Two-Face stares at it indifferently. "For the last time, Harvey is _dead_. And _I_ don't like carrots."

The carrot-tipped knife hangs between them for a moment, then retreats. "If you say so," the Joker says darkly, not conceding so much as challenging.

Two-Face isn't sure if he's referring to Harvey or the carrot. He curls his upper half-lip. "I do say so."

"Uh-huh." The Joker moves like he's going to eat the carrot off the tip of the knife, but with one quick flick of his wrist, the knife flies through the air and lands in Enzo's throat. He falls to the floor, gasping and sputtering silently.

The Joker flashes a grin as the other thugs recoil; too quickly, Enzo stops sputtering. Two-Face discards his mask of apathy – which is exactly what the Joker wants, but he doesn't care anymore. This is too much. "Enough of your games, Joker," he growls. "That man was one of my best enforcers."

"_My_ games?" The Joker laughs, gleefully skeptical. "I think _you_ are the one playing games here, Harvey."

Two-Face is silent for a moment. "I set you _free_," he finally says, softly menacing and deadly serious. "And I didn't do it just because I was _bored_. If you think – "

"You should stop talking, before you embarrass yourself," the Joker interrupts with a small smile and dead eyes. "_You_ set me free?" He laughs and pushes his hair to the side. "Aw, Harvey, I thought you knew better. D'you – d'you have _any _idea how ridiculous that is? I've been free since the day I got these scars. You can't set me _free._"

Two-Face says nothing. The Joker's tongue flicks around under his lips, feeling the insides of the scars, and he continues, with more urgency. "See, freedom? That's just a prettier word, a _politician's_ word, for chaos. Not a lot of people in the world know that. If a person thinks – really _thinks_ –that they're free, you can't control 'em no matter what you do. So, over time, the guys in power changed the meaning of the word: if you're not in jail, then you're free. And people liked that definition, took to it like grape juice. _You_ liked it too, and don't pretend like you didn't. And that's the difference between you and me, Harvey. _You_ think that laws and prisons restrict a person's freedom, you think it's _punishment._ But me – no one can punish _me,_ because no one can _imprison_ me, you understand? I'll never be a prisoner, 'cause my thoughts are mine – they're intangible, which makes them ungovernable. They're, uh, irrepressible, uncontrollable – even I can't control 'em, and I don't _want to_. See, _you're_ the prisoner, Harvey. And sure, your thoughts are dark now, but they're still conventional, aren't they? You're a victim of your own conventional thinking. That makes you predictable _and_ confinable. You oughta work on that." He chuckles once, darkly. Proud of himself, too.

Two-Face leans forward. Despite himself, he's interested. "What do you mean, conventional?"

The Joker grins, almost mockingly. "I _mean_, you want revenge. Not on Batman, not on Gordon – you already tried that, and you failed. You want something bigger. Don't you."

He nods slowly.

"You want Gotham. And, naturally, you want my help." He laughs shortly. He enjoys the cliché. "Like I said, predictable."

"No," Two-Face says quickly, adamantly. "I absolutely do not want your help. We both know that would be impossible, working together." He can't help but let a bit of disgust creep into his voice. Just the thought is appalling.

The Joker's grin widens imperceptibly, a sign Two-Face takes (or perhaps _mis_takes) for agreement. "What do you want, then?"

Two-Face leans back in his chair. "I want you to do what you do best, and I want you to stay out of my way."

"Funny," the Joker says. "That's what I want, too."

* * *

Jim Gordon sits at his desk, completely in the dark, staring at the name in the report he's holding. The print is only slightly darker than the surrounding blackness, but he can make it out nonetheless – it's clearer than a newspaper headline. Which, he thinks grimly, it will be soon enough.

He closes his eyes as a cold breeze drifts across his face. His heart sinks – the window was closed when he came in, and he didn't even hear it open, which can only mean one thing. Batman. For a moment, Gordon is at a loss, doesn't know what to say, but then he clears his throat and manages to choke out, "Tonight is not our night."

Silence – Batman agrees. There's nothing for him to say, so Gordon continues, "More than you know, I mean." He pauses, unwilling to make the newest news true by saying it out loud. "Twenty minutes ago, Harlean Quinselle… she, uh, disappeared from the hospital."

"How?" Batman asks immediately, unable to mask his surprise.

Gordon sighs in frustration. "We don't know. One of the doctors found the cop I put at her door unconscious – poisoned somehow. Someone either kidnapped her or helped her escape, we don't know yet." _Probably never will, _he thinks.

Batman only says, "You'll find her."

Gordon laughs skeptically. "I appreciate the thought, but I doubt it." He sighs. "Anyway, she's the least of my problems right now." He pauses again, and Batman waits for an explanation. "You know, she told me it was you who let the Joker out."

"She lied."

"Of course she did," Gordon says with a wry laugh, "but I believed her for awhile. She described you perfectly, right down to your eyes, if you can believe it. But then we found fingerprints in the car the Joker gift-wrapped for us." He tosses the report onto the desk. "She definitely lied. We all know you don't leave fingerprints."

Batman walks over to the desk and picks up the report. "Fingerprint analysis?" he asks softly.

Gordon glances at him and sighs, "Yeah."

"You got a match." He doesn't ask. He knows.

"Yeah."

Batman glances at the report, closes it quickly, and places it back in front of Gordon. Silent, he walks back to the window, completely unreadable. Gordon takes his glasses off and tries to rub the exhaustion out of his eyes. "I've been an idiot," he murmurs sadly, "and now all of Gotham's going to pay for it."

"He won't last that long. Neither of them will."

For a moment, Gordon hates Batman for trying to reassure him. He knows that this catastrophe is mostly his fault, but deep in his heart, he blames Batman for everything. The Joker never would have come out of his box if Batman hadn't been such an enticing toy for him to play with, and Harvey Dent never would've become a maniac bent on revenge. Angrily, he stands up to face Batman. He doesn't mean to shout, but he can't help it. "It's only been twelve hours, and we've already got a circus out there! The next few weeks are going to be _exponentially_ more disastrous than last time, and _this_ time, in case you've forgotten, there are _two_ ringleaders out there, ready to raze Gotham to the ground. You can't fix this!"

Batman glances back at Gordon and says, "Maybe not, but I'll fix it anyway." Then, he leaves.

Gordon slams the window shut with an angry shout and stands there for a moment, panting and deliberating. Then, he makes a decision. He grabs the report and throws it into the trash, then rifles through his desk, finds a match, and sets the trash on fire. Five minutes later, he has a new report on his desk, fresh from the printer, declaring in bold, official lettering: **NO MATCH. **He might as well commit yet another felony, if it'll help in the long run. Gotham can't know the truth. Not yet.


	7. Something of the Terrible

**Title:** Chelsea Grin – "Something of the Terrible" (7/?)**  
Rating:** PG-13**  
Characters:** Pamela Isley, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth. Brief mentions of others**.  
Summary:** "Yes, a Bruce Wayne party," she comments, smirking knowingly. "They're just as infamous and _exclusive_ as their namesake, aren't they? And at the newly rebuilt Wayne Manor, too. Who wouldn't want to come?"**  
Word count:** 1,872  
**Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to DC. I'm just messing around.**  
Author's Note: **All the scientific stuff? All true. Didn't make it up. Seriously, look it up on Wikipedia if you don't believe me. Also, the title is from "The Masque of the Red Death" by Edgar Allan Poe. :)

* * *

"Mr. Wayne?"

"Yeah!" Bruce shouts automatically, waking himself up. His eyes fly open and, realizing that he's slouching over his desk, sits up quickly before anyone can see him. He shakes his head once and blinks furiously, trying to shake off the disorientation and failing. He regrets falling asleep at his desk, but he can't really blame himself; yesterday was a long day and an even longer night. He barely slept an hour before he somehow got himself to Wayne Enterprises – he can't remember how he got here, let alone why he's here at all. Something about an appointment. He holds his head in his hands and tries to remember through the bleariness, but all he can think about is the stinging sensation in his eyes. He needs sleep, but he knows he won't get it anytime soon.

Then he hears a smooth voice, and he remembers why he's here. She says, mocking and friendly all at the same time, "Looks like you forgot about me, Mr. Wayne. Have a nice nap?" She smiles sideways, halfway in the door and enjoying Bruce's blank stare of surprise.

He recovers quickly and smiles his widest, brightest Bruce Wayne smile. "Very nice, Dr. Isley," he replies pleasantly, "but I didn't forget about you. I just… dozed off." He nods his head in a self-deprecating manner and gestures to the chair in front of his desk. "Please, come in."

She slips inside, closes the door behind her, and crosses the room quickly, all business now. "So," she says briskly as she sits down. "Mr. Fox said you had some last minute questions." Bruce blinks. She gives him a small smile, coldly amused. "About the fundraiser?"

"Right, the fundraiser, of course," Bruce breathes, maintaining a sheepish smile as his stomach tightens. He _completely_ forgot about the fundraiser. Feigning embarrassment, he chuckles weakly and says, "Well, I, uh – I guess my first question is, did we ever decide on a date?"

Isley narrows her eyes disbelievingly. "New Year's Eve. That was the first thing we decided – your butler insisted on it. Don't you remember?"

He does remember; he just wants confirmation. He masks his dismay with an apologetic smile and laughs, "Right, right. You know, I'm sorry about this." He makes a flippant gesture toward his head, indicating his seemingly faulty memory, and continues with more honesty than he intends, "Long night."

She laughs bitterly at this and says, "Same here. Though I'm guessing you didn't have an old friend call you up early Christmas morning and ask for a place to stay, did you?" Her eyes are just as bitter as her tone.

"On Christmas morning?" She nods, and Bruce whistles. "Sounds like your friend's a bit of a nuisance," he comments, inwardly glad that the conversation is no longer about him.

"More than you know," she replies, smiling poisonously. She adjusts her glasses and disposes of her sour demeanor with a quick shake of her red hair – back to business again. "Your questions, Mr. Wayne?"

He scratches his cheek and says quickly, "Yes, well, I just wanted to know more about this compound – what is it, farcorinal?"

"Falcarinol."

"Yeah, that – before the fundraiser. You're sure – I mean, _absolutely_ sure – that it can cure cancer?"

One corner of her mouth goes back into a smile. "Well, no one can be absolutely sure about anything when it comes to cancer," she explains evenly, "but one study conducted in England showed some promising results."

"Uh huh," Bruce murmurs, looking Isley in the eye. "Well. That sounds wonderful, but you're a botanist, aren't you?" Her pleasant, rather superior expression disappears quickly, replaced by a dead calm. "What I mean is, you're not a medical doctor, so I guess I'm a little confused as to how this rather specialized subject fits into your area of expertise." He provokes her on purpose, simply to verify her legitimacy. She seems too distant to be a cancer

"I'm not just a botanist, Mr. Wayne, I'm also a chemist," she counters sharply. "I'm good at creating new compounds, compounds that _help_ people. And it just so happens," she adds with an icy smile, "that falcarinol is found primarily in a plant that is very much a part of my _area of expertise,_ as you say."

"And what plant is that?"

"Ivy. Falcarinol is the stuff that makes you itch." A smile forms around her words, and Bruce knows that she relishes the thought of giving somebody an agonizing rash – at this moment, probably him.

Still, in spite of his put-on persona, Bruce is interested. He leans back in his chair and pretends that he is only _vaguely_ interested. "Huh. So this stuff, what, irritates the cancer cells into oblivion?"

She chuckles a low and throaty chuckle. "Something like that," she admits. "The only problem is that it's going to take a lot of research - years, even – to perfect a formula that will target the cancer cells and the cancer cells _only_." She pauses, then adds nonchalantly, "Which, of course, means I'm going to need a lot of money."

Bruce waves his hand dismissively. "That won't be a problem. Even if we weren't doing the fundraiser, Wayne Enterprises would be more than happy to invest in something as important as this. I mean, curing cancer – who _wouldn't_ want to invest?" He laughs his arrogant Bruce Wayne laugh. He annoys himself.

"Yes, I've been wondering about that," Isley says, taking her glasses off and giving Bruce a distant look that seems rather practiced. "I don't see why you're holding a fundraiser at all, when you and Fox could've given me a blank check months ago if you really wanted to."

Her question throws Bruce for a moment. He's not quite sure what to make of it – it wasn't quite an accusation, nor was it _just_ a question. It was almost a calculated challenge, but he has no idea what exactly she's challenging – maybe it's a response to his doubting her skills as a scientist, or maybe it's something else. Whatever it is, her face maintains a look of careful disinterest, and he attempts to match it. "You'll get more money this way, trust me. You wouldn't believe what people will pay to get into one of my parties."

"Yes, a Bruce Wayne party," she comments, smirking knowingly. "They're just as infamous and _exclusive_ as their namesake, aren't they? And at the newly rebuilt Wayne Manor, too. Who wouldn't want to come?"

"Who indeed," Bruce murmurs, and his stomach tightens again.

* * *

"Alfred, we have to cancel the party."

Alfred briefly glances up at Bruce and continues chopping his carrots calmly. "It's a fundraiser, Master Wayne, not a party."

Bruce sighs briefly, goes over to the sink, and leans over it, staring intensely out the window and into the snow-covered gardens. "Doesn't matter. We have to cancel."

Behind him, Bruce hears Alfred pause, then set the knife on the cutting board. "And why, may I ask, is that?"

Bruce laughs to himself and turns around. "I don't want a surprise guest showing up out of the blue, that's why."

Nodding once, Alfred turns back to his carrots and begins chopping again. His face is completely blank and he remains silent, but Bruce can tell that, for whatever reason, Alfred doesn't approve. Rolling his eyes, Bruce says exasperatedly, "Alfred, you _know_ he's going to show up." He pauses, and Alfred keeps chopping. "I'm not going to have any more people die because of me."

"That's the right sentiment," Alfred says slowly, "but not the right idea." _Chop, chop, chop._

"What do you mean?" Bruce asks, slightly perplexed.

Alfred sets the knife down again and turns to Bruce. "It's really quite simple," he explains, smiling crookedly. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but the only way to _stop_ the Joker is to catch him, yes?"

"Yeah…?"

"Think, Bruce. The only way to catch the Joker is to draw him out, to lure him into an environment that only _you_ control. That was the problem last time – he controlled everything, and you only managed to catch him because he never factored your violent gauntlets into his plans."

Reluctantly, Bruce smiles. "That's one way to look at it, I suppose. But, seriously, Alfred – you _want_ the Joker to crash the party?"

"Of course I do! It'd be nothing less than a blessing if he showed up! All we have to do is make a few more security modifications, and the manor is as good as a mouse trap."

"Which makes me the cheese, right?"

"Not exactly," Alfred says slyly, popping one of the carrots into his mouth. "I'd say you were more of a Prince Prospero, actually."

"Prince Prospero?" Bruce laughs skeptically, and he takes a carrot as well. "In case you've forgotten," he comments through his chewing, "the Red Death kills Prince Prospero at the end of the story."

"Kills everybody, actually." Alfred's eyes twinkle mischievously.

Bruce shakes his head. "Not exactly reassuring."

"Well, Prospero was an idiot," Alfred says cheerily, "and you, thankfully, are not. And neither am I, for that matter."

Bruce looks down for a moment, and then looks back at Alfred. His eyes are bright, filled with the promise of a brilliant plan, and Bruce lets himself be convinced. "Alright," he says. "Let's hope this works."

Triumphantly, Alfred returns to his carrots. As Bruce leaves, he hears Alfred call out, "By the way, Master Wayne – you are definitely the cheese!"

"And don't I know it," Bruce calls back, unable to keep himself from grinning, and then he murmurs softly to himself, "This had better work."

* * *

Over the next five days, everyone prepares for New Year's Eve. Most of Gotham's citizens call their friends and family and invite them to casual get-togethers; some stock up on booze so they can forget that they're spending New Year's alone. Others, however, prepare in different ways.

A vigilante prowls the streets looking for a dead man. A billionaire, a butler, and a CEO discuss the advantages and disadvantages of a gas that can knock out a crowd quickly and harmlessly. A billionaire vigilante lies awake at night, tries not to regret, and fails.

A dead man slowly breathes life into a dead mafia. A scientist spends hours in her greenhouse, tending to her plants and imagining a formula that will eventually become a powerful drug. A puppet stands behind the scientist and juggles two lives in her mind. Which will she choose? Which _should_ she choose? When the scientist goes shopping for a dress, she slips away, pumped full of morphine and invisible save for the sloppy bandage around her ankle. She chooses the wrong one.

A clown summons clowns and caterers. The puppet finds the clown; the clown is amused, but apathetic. At the last minute, he gives her an important task. If she doesn't succeed, everything will fall apart. She succeeds, just to please him.

A vigilante dons a billionaire suit. A butler double-checks. A scientist paints her lips a toxic red. A clown erases his grin and gives it to a puppet, giggling monstrously at the whimpering children behind him.

Time to party.


End file.
